The Better Part

Lord, who may dwell in your tabernacle? Who may abide upon your holy hill?

In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Our Gospel today contains the familiar story of Mary sitting at the feet of Jesus, while Martha rattles around the house, distracted by her many tasks. Countless words have been preached on this text, weighing the tension between the relative merits of single-minded focus in the presence of our Lord and the demands of the many tasks that do indeed need to get done.

It’s common to cast Mary as the spiritual one, while Martha is practical. In some churches people embrace their inner Marthas by joining St. Martha’s guilds, which depending on the congregation, focus on tasks as varied as needlework or providing meals after funerals.

I won’t be the first preacher or the last to point out that the dichotomy between Mary and Martha is a false one. We all have our many tasks to attend to: getting bills paid, helping kids with homework, maintaining some semblance of order in our homes. And we are all blessed with at least some moments to spend time with and be strengthened by Jesus Christ, our savior, redeemer, and friend. The trick is to know which kind of moment you’re in at any given time, and respond accordingly.

Last weekend’s moment was the 80^th General Convention of the Episcopal Church, the peak Martha event that this denomination has to offer. Held every three years, the General Convention is the mechanism by which the whole church makes decisions together. This year, over four days in Baltimore, around a thousand bishops, deacons, priests, and laypeople gathered to consider some 419 pieces of legislative business. 

These included polite but ultimately inconsequential things, such as resolution A169, which expressed “deepest thanks to the City of Baltimore,” but which one must assume went altogether unnoticed by Baltimore's citizenry.

The convention’s business also included the introduction of initiatives to, and, critically, the provision of resources for, The Episcopal Church to confront its past and present when it comes to its intrinsic linkages with colonialism, its complicity in white supremacist systems, and its blemished record on racial justice and equity. We as a church will be looking at everything from examining the church’s history supporting indigenous boarding schools that separated Native American children from their families and cultures, to the implicit assumptions undergirding the language of our liturgies, to establishing “the Episcopal Coalition for Racial Equity and Justice as a voluntary association of…dioceses, parishes, organizations, and individuals dedicated to the work of becoming the Beloved Community,” an effort I anticipate All Saints will want to be part of.

These efforts come not from a desire to wallow in guilt. This is not about beating ourselves up. This is about believing Jesus when he teaches us, “If you continue in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.” (John 8:31-32)

They come from a conviction that a church that hides from the truth yields to shame.

But a church that tells the whole truth, that acknowledges and repents of its sins, and commits to righting the wrongs it has done, truly follows Jesus Christ "out of error into truth, out of sin into righteousness, out of death into life." (BCP 1979, p. 368)

This work is not a distraction from the Christian message. It is an embodiment of it. And there is some urgency to the task.

A few weeks ago, during my lunch hour, I was over in the parish hall working on something or other to do with church finances, when the doorbell rang. I answered, and at the back door were four or five children, and a pair of young adults. They were from a summer day camp happening nearby. The kids were on a mission – a photo scavenger hunt – and one of the items on their list was to take a photo of “unusual light.” One of the camp counselors had the idea to ask if they could come inside the church, reasoning that sunlight streaming through stained glass would probably fit the bill.

I’m delighted to tell you that when we came into the nave, the kids were in awe.

“This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen!” a little girl exclaimed.

One of the boys, probably the oldest of the group, I’d guess maybe 10 years old, immediately demanded a tour. He wanted to see everything. So we trooped up to the organ loft, then out to the Michael Chapel garden, where they were able to cross “a peaceful place” off the scavenger hunt checklist, and into the sacristy, where the kids peered through the skylight and determined it constituted “an interesting view of the sky.” Check.

At last they snapped a few photos of the windows in the Mary and Michael chapels and prepared to leave.

“I’d love to visit here on a Sunday,” the boy said to me.

“And we’d love to have you visit,” I said.

“Would I be welcome here?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” I replied.

“No, would I be welcome,” he repeated, as if I wasn’t understanding him, “Are people welcome here who have skin like mine?”

He gestured to his face, to his brown skin, and my heart sank.

“Yes, of course,” I said again, directing his attention again to the windows, to St. Michael the Archangel and the Blessed Mother sharing skin like his.

I’d like to think my answer was convincing, and that he walked away knowing that the beauty of this place belongs to him every bit as much as it belongs to you sitting here this morning.

But what’s the persuasive power of a glimpse of stained glass compared to the crushing weight of the experiences this boy has had to make him think this question necessary of a church, let alone our church? That’s a Holy Spirit sort of question that I don’t have a proper answer to.

The experience of seeing this boy bowled over by beauty, and yet already understanding himself as under threat because of who he is and what he looks like, wondering if we judge him worthy to be here was heartbreaking.

It will not have escaped your attention that our state and our country are going through some stuff right now. The fundamental dignity and right to self-determination of a lot of people, a lot of us, is under threat. Many of us fear for ourselves, our friends, the future our children and grandchildren will inherit.

As citizens we have our responsibility to engage in the political process, but we only have so much control over the “thrones, dominions, rulers, and powers” (Col. 1:16) that govern what happens out there 

Out there, the Adversary prowls like a lion (1 Pet. 5:8, para.), sowing works of discord, division, devaluing the belovedness of every human being, It is not wrong for us and for those who seek us out, maybe you visiting for the first time this morning, to be worried, afraid.

But worry and fear are not where we're going to stay. The world needs us to commit with even greater vigor to living up to who we say we are in here. So that everyone who passes beneath the little plastic sign reading, “Everyone is welcome,” or past the one in which is carved in stone, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers,” find us to be clear and true not only about who we are, but who God is.

Jesus Christ came that we "might have life, and have it abundantly" (Jn. 10:10). As much as our world might be a factory of despair right now, anyone who comes in here needs to know – you need to know - that God would not have our spirits wilt while our hearts are still beating.

You are made in God’s image, so for you is the gift of God’s beauty. For you is the gift of God’s love For you is the grace, mercy, and forgiveness of God. For you. For all of you.

And for you, against "the changes and chances of this mortal life" (BCP 1979, p. 133), against all of your distracting tasks, is a place to choose the better part, which will not be taken from you (Lk 10:42, para.): to rest alongside Mary at the feet of Jesus, and draw strength from "every word that falls from the mouth of God." (Matt. 4:4) 

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sixth Sunday after Pentecost - July 17, 2022

Episcopal Church of All Saints, Indianapolis

Genesis 18:1-10a, Psalm 15, Colossians 1:15-28, Luke 10:38-42